Now the mist had become a proper drizzle, and Hugh guessed The drizzle would develop into a steady, drenching rain by the time he reached home. It was just his luck. He walked steadily onward, not weaving quite so much now (the air had had a sobering effect on him), eyes moving restlessly from side to side. His mind was troubled, and he wished someone would come along and give him some lip. Even a little lip would do tonight. He thought briefly of the rday afternoon, and kid who had stepped in front of his truck yesterday wished sulkily that he had knocked the brat all the way across the street. it wouldn’t have been his fault, no way. In his day, kids had looked where they were going. e the Emporium Galorium had He passed the vacant lot wher Castle Rock Hardstood before it burned down, You Sew and Sew, ware… and then he was passing Needful Things. He glanced into the display window, looked back up Main Street (only a mile and a half to go, now, and maybe he would beat the rain before it really started to pelt down, after all), and then came to a sudden halt.
His feet had carried him past the new store, and he had to go back. There was a single light on above the window display, casting its soft glow down over the three items arranged there. The light also spilled out onto his face, and it worked a wondrous transformation there. Suddenly Hugh looked like a tired little boy up long past his bedtime, a little boy who has just seen what he wants for Christmas-what he must have for Christmas, because all at once nothing else on God’s green earth would do. The central object in the window was flanked by two fluted vases (Nettle Cobb’s beloved carnival glass, although Hugh didn’t know this and would not have cared if he did).
It was a fox-tail.
Suddenly it was 1955 again, he had ’Just gotten his license, and the Western Maine Schoolboy Championship he was driving to game-Castle Rock vs. Greenspark-in his dad’s ’53 Ford convertible. It was an unseasonably warm November day, warm enough to pull that old ragtop down and tack the tarp over it (if you were a bunch of hot-blooded kids ready, willing, and able to raise some eter Do on N E E I N G S Cabin whiskey, Perry Como was on the had brought a flask of Log. ting behind the white wheel, and fluttering radio, Hugh Prie,t was sit just like from the radio antenna had been a long, - luxuriant fox-tail,) as now looking at in the window of this store. the one he wanta’l and thinkHe remembered looking up at that fluttering fox is own, he was going to ing that, when he owned a convertible of his have one just like that- sing the flask when it came around to He remembered refu 1 him.
He was driving, and you didn’t drink while you were driving, be cause you were responsible for the lives of others. And he remem I remembered one other thing, as well: the certainty that he was living the best hour of the best day of his life. Its clarity and total e memory surprised and hurt him in 1
sensory recall-smoky aroma of burning leaves, November sun twinkling on guardrail reflectors, and now, looking at the fox-tail in the display window of Needful Things, it struck him that it had been the best day of his life, one of the last days before the booze him into had caught him firmly in its rubbery, pliant grip, turning 1
I a weird variation of King Midas: everything he had touched since then, it seemed, had turned to shit.
He suddenly thought: I could change.
This idea had its own arresting clarity.
I could start over.
Were such things possible?
Yes, I think sometimes they are. I could buy that fox-tail and tie it on the antenna of my Buick.
They’d laugh, though. The guys’d laugh.
What guys? Henry Beaufort.;, That little Pissant Bobby Dugas.’ So what… ’ Fuck em. Buy that fox-tail, tie it to the antenna, and drive Drive where?
Well, how about that Thursday-night A.A. meeting over in Greens Park for a start.@ For a moment the possibility stunned and excited him, the way a long- term prisoner might be stunned and excited by the sight of the key left in the lock of his jail cell by a careless warder. For a moment he could actually see himself doing it, picking up a wite chip, then a red chip, then a blue chip, getting sober day by day and month by month. No more Mellow Tiger. Too bad. But also no more paydays spent in terror that he would find a pink slip in his envelope along with his check, and that was not so too bad.
In that moment, as he stood looking at the fox-tail in the display window of Needful Things, Hugh could see a future. For the first time in years he could see a future, and that beautiful orange foxbrush with its white tip floated through it like a battle-flag.
Then reality crashed back in, and reality smelled like rain and damp, dirty clothes. There would be no fox-tail for him, no A.A. meetings, no chips, no future. He was fifty-one fucking years old, and fifty-one was too old for dreams of the future. At fifty-one you had to keep running just to escape the avalanche of your own past.
If it had been business hours, though, he would have taken a shot at it, anyway. Damned if he wouldn’t. He’d walk in there, just as big as billy-be-damned, and ask how much was that fox-tail in the window.
But it was ten o’clock, Main Street was locked up as tight as an ice-queen’s chastity belt, and when he woke up tomorrow morning, feeling as if someone had planted an icepick between his eyes, he would have forgotten all about that lovely fox-tail, with its vibrant russet color.
Still, he lingered a moment longer, trailing dirty, callused fingers over the glass like a kid looking into a toyshop window. A little smile had touched the corners of his mouth. It was a gentle smile, and it looked out of place on Hugh Priest’s face. Then, somewhere up on Castle View, a car backed off several times, sounds as sharp as shotgun blasts on the rainy air, and Hugh was startled back to himself.
Fuck it. What the hell are you thinking of?
He turned away from the window and pointed his face toward home again-if you wanted to call the two-room shack with the tacked-on woodshed where he lived home. As he passed under the canopy, he looked at the door… and stopped again.
The sign there, of course, read
Like a man in a dream, Hugh put his hand out and tried the knob.
It turned freely under his hand. Overhead, a small silver bell tinkled. The sound seemed to come from an impossible distance away.
A man was standing in the middle of the shop. He was running a feather-duster over the top of a display case and humming. He turned toward Hugh when the bell rang. He didn’t seem a bit surprised to see someone standing in his doorway at ten minutes past ten on a Wednesday night. The only thing that struck Hugh about the man in that confused moment was his eyes-they were as black as an Indian’s.
“You forgot to turn your sign over, buddy,” Hugh heard himself say.
“No, indeed,” the man replied politely. “I don’t sleep very well, I’m afraid, and some nights I take a fancy to open late. One never knows when a fellow such as yourself may stop by… and take a fancy to something. Would you like to come in and look around?”
Hugh Priest came in and closed the door behind him.
7
“There’s a fox-tail-” Hugh began, then had to stop, clear his throat, and start again. The words had come out in a husky, unintelligible mutter. “There’s a fox-tail in the window.”
“Yes,” the proprietor said. “Beauty, isn’t it?” He held the duster in front of him now, and his Indian-black eyes looked at Hugh with interest from above the bouquet of feathers which hid his lower face. Hugh couldn’t see the guy’s mouth, but he had an idea he was smiling. It usually made him uneasy when people-especially people he didn’t know-smiled at him. It made him feel like he wanted to fight.
Tonight, however, it didn’t seem to bother him at all. Maybe because he was still half-shot.
“It is,” Hugh agreed. “It is a beauty. My dad had a convertible with a fox-tail just like that tied to the antenna, back when I was a kid. There’s a lot of people in this crummy little burg wouldn’t believe I ever was a kid, but I was. Same as everyone else.”
“Of course.” The man’s eyes remained fixed on Hugh’s, and the strangest thing was happening-they seemed to be growing. Hugh couldn’t seem to pull his own eyes away from them. Too much direct eye-contact was another thing which usually made him feel like he wanted to fight.
But this also seemed perfectly okay tonight.
“I used to think that fox-tail was just about the coolest thing in the world.”
“Of course.”
“Cool-that was the word we u:ed back then. None of this rad shit.
And gnarly-I don’t have the slightest fuckin idea what that means, do you?”
But the proprietor of Needful Things was silent, simply standing there, watching Hugh Priest with his black Indian eyes over the foliage of his feather- duster.
“Anyway, I want to buy it. Will you sell it to me?”
“Of course,” Leland Gaunt said for the third time.
Hugh felt relief and a sudden, sprawling happiness. He was suddenly sure everything was going to be all right-everything. This was utterly crazy; he owed money to just about everyone in Castle Rock and the surrounding three towns, he had been on the ragged edge of losing his job for the last six months, his Buick was running on a wing and a prayer- but it was also undeniable.
“How much?” he asked. He suddenly wondered if he would be able to afford such a fine brush, and felt a touch of panic. What if it was out of his reach? Worse, what if he scrounged up the money somehow tomorrow, or the day after that, only to find the guy had sold it?
“Well, that depends.”
“Depends? Depends on what?”
“On how much you’re willing to pay.”
Like a man in a dream, Hugh pulled his battered Lord Burton out of his back pocket.
“Put that away, Hugh.”
Did I tell him my name?
Hugh couldn’t remember, but he put the wallet away.
“Turn out your pockets. Right here, on top of this case.”
Hugh turned out his pockets. He put his pocket-knife, a roll of Certs, his Zippo lighter, and about a dollar-fifty in tobaccosprinkled change on top of the case.
